


Can You Imagine Us, Years From Today

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2010-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:56:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a special bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Imagine Us, Years From Today

**Author's Note:**

> Written May 2008 for sorkin_fest; prompt: _Dan and Isaac, eggplant_. The aubergines are in disguise. Thanks to kmousie and leiascully for read-throughs and advice.

For reasons that now elude him – some misguided sense of duty, he supposes, what with him being the host and all – Isaac has taken in on himself to speak personally to every single person present at the 'welcome to CSC!' so-called barbecue. 'Barbecue', indeed; Isaac has spent the past few years in London, and has been to Buckingham Palace garden parties on a smaller scale than this. What _had_ he been thinking?

All in all, there must be around three hundred people here, what with executives, sponsors, staff and their assorted partners. An hour in and counting, the strain of repetition is beginning to tell. There are, after all, only a finite number of ways to say "So glad you could make it" together with, when necessary, "Remind me – what is it that you do?" and by this time he's used every one of them. Several times over, in fact. His memory for names and faces is legendary in the business, but he's beginning to feel that that might be finite too. Plus his hands are becoming sticky, which is, as the girls would say, _gross_. He realises now why Queen Elizabeth always wears gloves. When he'd shaken hands with her he'd been mildly offended, but now it makes perfect sense and he wishes he'd taken the same precaution. Although short white gloves would look pretty foolish on him. Besides which, people would think he was the butler.

Pity he didn't hire a butler, come to think of it. Wouldn't that have given Luther Sachs something to think about?

He sneaks a furtive glance around, checking for damage. Most of the formal plantings seem intact, although he's pretty sure that sooner or later someone's either going to trip into or trample over one of them, probably one of the more expensive and exotic, but the lawn is never going to be the same again. Remind him: which genius was it who came up with the idea of throwing this shindig in his own back yard? Oh, wait. Yes. Yes, indeed. That would be him.

While he's about it, he keeps an eye open for Ellie. In the whirligig of meet-and-greet he's had no time to spare a thought for his own family. He has, as well he might, every faith in Esther, while Kathy is, though he hates to admit it, an adult now – an adult who'll soon be a married woman with kids of her own, and just when and how did _that_ happen?! – but Ellie had been deeply under-impressed at the prospect of her home being invaded by a bunch of dreary strangers, and hadn't made much effort, or any effort at all, actually, to hide her feelings. Fourteen-year-old girls aren't known for their tact, and Ellie less so than most. He'd tried to sugar the pill by asking her whether she'd like to invite some of her own friends along for company, but the eyeroll and the muttered "Lame!" that had met the suggestion had given him to understand that it was the stupidest idea in the entire stupid history of the stupid world, and then a little stupider than that. Like most of his suggestions, these days, he muses, still looking, and then he spots her. She's some yards away, by a clump of trees, alone. Sulking, Isaac guesses, then looks again, and realises that she's not alone after all. There's one person with her, a tall, dark-haired man. He's leaning forward a little, to bring himself closer to her height, and she's looking up and laughing (Isaac tries and fails to remember when Ellie last laughed at anything he said), and also, miracle of miracles, her eternal Walkman-thing is, for once, detached from her ears.

For reasons that he can't explain, Isaac isn't comforted by this. At this distance he doesn't recognise the man, but whoever he may be, Isaac doesn't want him hanging around the Jaffee womenfolk. Certainly not around Ellie, who may think she's tough and streetwise, but is really not much more than a little girl – and god help him, Isaac muses, if she ever heard him say so.

He excuses himself to the tall, brassy woman who's had him cornered for what seems like the past half-hour, thanking all the saints in heaven that she'll be working on _West Coast Update_ and not _Sports Night_ itself and is thus not his direct problem, and he sets off across the grass to make an intervention.

When he gets a little closer, he realises that it's not necessary. Whatever the man's been saying to Ellie, it doesn't seem to have been anything of an intimate nature. At least – for _his_ sake, Isaac hopes not; she's not just laughing, she's about two steps away from rolling around on the floor.

"_No!_" she's saying. "That's _East Coast_ rap, and besides – he's dead. Don't you know _anything?_"

It may not seem like much, but the fact that she's talking at all – not snarling – that's a lot. It's _everything_.

The man grins amiably, rueful and utterly unruffled. "Not much," he admits cheerfully, "but I lie really, really well." He glances up and sees Isaac bearing down on them. "Your dad's on his way. You want to do something about that smile?"

She puts a suspicious hand to her mouth, automatically covering up several hundred dollars' worth of the best dental work money can buy, even in London. "What's wrong with my smile?"

"Nothing," he assures her. "It's a very nice smile. But do you really want your dad to see it? Won't that blow your cover?"

Ellie only giggles, and he carries on, "You know, when I was fourteen – " He holds up a hand in warning. "Yeah, I _do_ remember that far back, thanks – I was such a grouch, my Dad thought I'd traded places with a serial killer. I don't think I said a single nice thing to him or my mom until …" He stops, considering. "You know, I think I still haven't? I should call them, huh?"

Isaac recognises him now. It's Dan Rydell, the second anchor on _Sports Night_ – the one who, although this is a deathly secret known only to Isaac himself and one or two others, Luther Sachs hadn't wanted. He'd bid for Dan's partner on the anchor team, Casey McCall, and Casey, to his credit, had insisted that Dan had to be a part of the deal. A dealbreaker, in fact. Isaac had wondered at the time what it was that made the boy so special, but he'd tucked the thought aside. Maybe his is the writing talent and McCall can't cut it without him. It's McCall who's won awards, but stranger things have been known. For his own peace of mind, that's the theory that Isaac means to stick with, at least for now. If there's anything else going on between the two anchors, then he'd just as soon not know.

"Dan," Isaac says, nodding a greeting, and looks sidelong at Ellie. "Young lady. You know, I have a daughter who looks very much like you …"

"Daaaaaad!" she almost-wails; her skin darkens, and she cuts her eyes toward Dan, a gesture that unmistakeably means _Embarrass me in front of the cute guy, Dad, and you die!_ Isaac grins, and turns to Dan.

"How are you holding up?" He glances around. The clump of shrubbery they're standing in seems to have a muffling effect; from here, the noise of the party is muted and distant. "Far from the madding crowd?"

"Madding, maddening," Dan says, with a slight lift of one shoulder, and Isaac is impressed that he understands the difference. Dan's a writer, so he _ought_ to be good with words, but these things don't necessarily follow. "I saw Ellie over here looking lost, so I thought I'd come over and try and cheer her up." He smiles brightly. "I'm known far and wide as a Doer of Good Deeds where women are concerned." Then he lets the smile fade, and glances at Ellie a little sadly. "Though I'm getting the impression it might be a better deed if I just went away again."

That gets Ellie flustered; she tries to say "No" in about six different ways all at once and ends up spluttering. Dan is wise enough not to laugh at her, just rests a hand on her shoulder, says, "Don't you think we've been antisocial long enough?" and begins to steer her back toward the marquee. Isaac trails along, wondering what the boy's secret is. He knows that if he had tried the same thing, Ellie would have bitten his head off – or, at least, his hand.

But then, he's Ellie's father. Dan is less than half his age, and more than twice as good-looking. That counts for a lot.

They head for the buffet table. Dan picks up a plate, loads it high, then passes it to Ellie. "Eat," he advises. "You need to keep your strength up."

She looks suspicious. "Why?"

He glances at Isaac, wide-eyed and ingenuous. "Your dad didn't tell you?" he asks, all innocent surprise. "He's got you down to do the dishes later on."

"He has _not!_" she indignantly denies, then, looking uncertainly at Isaac, "Have you, Dad?"

Isaac h'ms. "Not … _yet_," he tells her. She sniffs in disdain, and flounces away. Isaac watches her go and is pleased to see her seek out an empty corner, settle down, and start eating like a normal person. Ordinarily she picks at her food and complains about her figure, and he can't be having such nonsense. He's already been through it once with Kathy – only just gotten over it, as a matter of fact – and he was hoping that Ellie might turn out to have more sense. No sign of it so far, if so.

Dan has filled another plate, which he offers to Isaac, who waves it away. He's an old hand at this sort of affair; he ate before the guests arrived, to give himself the advantage while making conversation. Dan shrugs, and takes a scoop of dip on a chunk of pita bread. He's very quiet for a moment afterward, then looks across at Isaac. "Man, this stuff is _amazing!_"

Isaac glances at the red smear on the plate. _Imam Bayildi_. "It's one of Esther's specialties," he tells Dan, not even trying to keep the pride out of his voice, because why in hell should he? His wife is incredible, and he's happy for the whole damned world to know it.

Dan's helped himself to another spoonful and is showing every sign of following the mythical holy man's example by swooning where he stands, but glances up at that. "Your wife cooked?" He waves a hand around, oblivious to the bread he's still holding. "All of this?"

Isaac raises an eyebrow, forgetting for the moment that he had said pretty much exactly the same thing when Esther had announced her intention. "You're surprised my wife cooks?" he suggests. There may be a slight hint of chill in the air around them, but Dan honestly doesn't seem to notice it; he hadn't meant any insult, and doesn't seem to expect any to be taken.

"God, no, why should I be?" he says. "But I'm pretty impressed that she caters. My dad used to throw a big party for his business two or three times a year, and my mom ... well, as a matter of fact, my mom really doesn't cook, so, you know. We hired caterers. Some of them almost got to be like family after a little while, they came around so often."

Isaac grimaces. He's sat through way too many banquets in his lifetime. "Guess you ate a lot of rubber chicken when you were a kid, huh?"

For an instant the confident façade splinters, and something lost and bewildered can be glimpsed behind Dan's eyes. Only for a moment, the briefest imaginable. Then the too-ready smile reappears, pasting over the cracks. "Not so much," Dan admits. Isaac notices that he's no longer quite looking straight at him, but somewhere slightly to the left of his shoulder. "We weren't invited." His attempt to shrug it away is painfully fake. "Not that we missed much there. We did have to finish up what was left over, though. That was a treat." Then he gives another shrug, brushing the memory away, looks Isaac once again straight in the eye, and turns the conversation around, away from himself, like the trained interviewer he is. "Did someone say you used to be bureau chief at CNN? Sports is kind of a different direction for you, isn't it …?"

Isaac lets him talk, and answers politely, but he wonders. There's a story there. Oh, sure, everyone has a story, and a rich young white guy's problems aren't ordinarily a priority for him. But when a large chunk of the fate of his brand spanking new show is hanging on that same rich young white guy's shoulders … well, that puts a different complexion on matters.

Dan Rydell will bear watching, he notes to himself. But then he's distracted by a shriek and a crash, and the sight of one of his guests tripping, as predicted, head-first into a bank of rhododendrons, and, by the time he's sorted out the resulting wreckage, Dan has vanished.

Isaac lets it go. There'll be plenty of time to worry in the weeks that lie ahead. In the meantime, since it _is_, after all, his party – why doesn't he just relax and enjoy it?

Like that's ever going to happen.

***

Dan sees people. Not dead people; just people. That doesn't sound like much; doesn't everybody, you might ask? And the answer is no; no, we don't. We're surrounded by others, we talk to them, interact with them, but we never really _look_ at them. We're too busy thinking of ourselves – _notice me, notice me!_ we scream – wondering what to say next, what impression we're making. None of us ever knows anybody else, not really.

But Dan's spent a good part of his life trying to elude notice: gliding through school with the minimum effort and the maximum ease, sliding under his parents' radar, avoiding his elder brother's ready fists, disguising his own shortcomings behind the construct of his TV persona. He works hard at maintaining a veneer of undemanding charm that wins him easy friends but keeps commitment at a safe distance. Somewhere along the way he found he'd begun to read between the lines, to hear what people are really saying: to know when 'leave me alone' actually means 'help me', when 'I'm fine' means 'I'm wish I were dead'. Somewhere further along the way he began to figure out what to say in reply. He hasn't quite got there yet, but he _tries_, and doesn't he get points for that?

And he knows what to expect from others. That's not so hard. Mostly people move in pretty rigidly fixed patterns. It's when they slip out of the regular groove – that's when things get sticky.

He wonders what to say to Isaac.

They've been working together for a long time now, the _Sports Night_ crew. People have come and gone, but the core of the team is still intact: himself, Casey, Dana, Natalie, Jeremy – who even now feels a little like a newcomer, not having been there at the beginning, that first fateful broadcast when Dan thinks there's not a one of them that didn't throw up sometime that night. And Isaac. If Dan knows anyone at all, he knows these people, and yet still they sometimes surprise him. An unsuspected meanness, an unlooked-for kindness, a sudden wild streak of sheer cussedness. Or a simple break in routine that might mean nothing, or might mean everything.

They work a long day; there isn't much time for a social life. Still, from time to time, there'll be a celebration – a birthday, a promotion, a new baby – and they'll find time to go out together for a meal. When they do, Dan knows exactly how it'll go. Dana will choose something new and exotic; Casey … won't. Natalie, tiny as she is, will order appetiser, entrée and dessert, and still snitch half of Jeremy's fries from his plate. Kim will somehow manage to make every mouthful look like an orgasm; Dan remembers watching her eat _moules_ in a Belgian restaurant, lifting the shells in her fingers and sucking away the meat with her moist, red lips, and how, after that experience, not a man at the table had dared to try to move for a good ten minutes after. While Isaac, who enjoys gourmet cooking every other night of his life and has never found a restaurant that can beat what's on offer at home, will order steak: plainly dressed, medium rare, with French fries and a salad, which he won't eat.

That's been true for years now. Until four months ago: Dana's birthday. When Isaac had ordered poached salmon with wild rice. Dan had noted the change, been curious, but then thought well, why not? It was none of his business, after all, any more than it was when, the next time they all got together, Isaac had ordered the warm chicken salad. But last night (Kim's engagement party, and wasn't that a loss to all the rest of mankind?) Isaac had ordered moussaka, vegetable moussaka at that, and that made it three times, and three times is the charm.

Dan puts it all together. It isn't hard; all the signs are there. Isaac comes in late more often these days, or works from home. Sometimes – once upon a time it would have been unimaginable – he leaves before the end of the show. He leans more heavily now on his cane than he used to. The well-stocked corner bar that used to grace his office is a bookshelf now. Dan can't remember the last time he saw Isaac with a Scotch in his hand.

With Ellie, his secret spy behind Jaffee lines, away at Columbia, Dan has no insider knowledge. But he fears that Isaac's home life, too, has come down to carpet slippers and early nights. He can picture it only too well.

Even if Ellie were home, Dan knows he wouldn't ask. Truthfully? He's scared to do so. He's scared, period. He's figured out the implications – he's a smart guy, but he didn't need to be, anyone with half an eye can see where this is leading. Only nobody else seems to have done so, and Dan's wary of bringing it up. He's afraid that putting it into words will make it true. Maybe the rest of them are thinking the exact same thing.

As for what to say to Isaac … it's academic, really. If Isaac wanted to talk, then he'd talk. He won't thank Dan for butting in. "I'm not your damned grandfather!" he's apt to say, which is, after all, no more than the truth.

Dan watched his grandfather die. He would, almost, rather die himself than live through that again. Yet what can he do but watch? If Isaac needs his help, then he'll ask for it.

Yeah. Like that's ever going to happen.

Dan's been standing in the corridor all this time, his eyes fixed on Isaac's closed door, trying to find the right words, trying to muster up his courage. There's nothing he can do. He knows that. But he can't do nothing.

He takes a deep breath, raises his hand, and knocks.

***


End file.
